The clean lines of his spotless leather briefcase clashed against the creases of his slightly ruffled shirt, his equally ruffled hair, not quite faded into the dull, uniform brown of a London businessman. Designer spectacles framed his tired weary eyes, as he clutched his briefcase with more attended care than he gave to his faintly scuffed shoes, or the loosened navy tie that had only narrowly avoided the untidy treachery of rushed coffee and a leaking ballpoint.
He walked with a disciplined gait, but with the type of wistfulness that was startling in a man so young. It wasn't characterised by indolence, and certainly not disinterest. It was the quiet disappointment of a man who had gone to the party but all the best people had already left. The sentimentality of his features broke the monotony of his appearance like a cream carnation amongst a bed of pure white roses. He was the kind of man whose head was always full of ideas on the bus to work, but never on the way home.
He wasn't looking for an artist's flourish; he was too pragmatic for that. He just wanted the lines to bend. Just a little. Just for long enough so that he could see it all come full circle in the end. Problem was, all he got was one long track to a place he wasn't sure existed any more.